With a groan, Isabelle turned her face to the wall, and Wally dragged Max out of the room.

Later Miss Watts came in to offer tea. The girl refused it, but she begged her companion to bring her all the morning papers.

"Wait until to-morrow, my dear," Miss Watts begged, alarmed at the change in her.

"No. I want to get it over."

So the papers were brought.

After propping her up on pillows and seeing that she was bodily comfortable at least, Miss Watts withdrew. Isabelle began at the beginning and read every word about that unhappy opening. The articles were written with a jocularity hard to bear. Most of them had graduated out of the regular dramatic review columns on to the first page. "HILARIOUS OPENING AT THE NEW YORK THEATRE!" "CARTEL'S FIND!" "IMPROMPTU ARTIST MAKES BOW."

These were some of the captions.

They all developed the story for what it was worth: Cartel's discovery of Isabelle at the inn; a few paragraphs about her family; mention of the wonderful publicity provided for her; a description of the brilliant first-night audience, with the Bryces' distinguished guests in all the boxes; Isabelle's reception as the maid. Then followed the plot of the play, up to the awful moment when Cartel's "discovery" forgot her lines and began to improvise. They painted the star's astonishment and subsequent fury. They added speculation as to the real climax of the evening which must have taken place back on the stage after the dropping of the final curtain. Every article made you hear the uncontrollable laughter of the audience.

Isabelle agonized over each one. She raged at the opinion of one dramatic critic who said that no doubt Cartel would release Miss Bryce on the morrow, but that a dozen managers would step forward to capture a young woman of such marked personality, and such a talent for publicity.

Max was right; they were all ruined. She had made the whole family ridiculous. She wasn't surprised that Max hated her for it. She deserved anything from them now. She lay in bed for several days, scarcely touching food, brooding upon her disgrace until she was really ill.

Wally hovered about her, deeply concerned, but not knowing how to comfort her. He kept Max out of the room as much as he could. Finally he sent for a doctor.

"Perfectly unnecessary," said his wife. "She isn't sick. She's made a fool of herself and lost the middle of the stage, so now she goes on a hunger strike to work up a little sympathy."

"The kid is suffering, I tell you. She is all broken up over this. I think we ought to take her away somewhere."

"You can count me out. I've been dragged home to open this house for her convenience. I'm not going off to some empty resort place because she needs a change."

The doctor had a talk with Isabelle, told her to cheer up, gave her a tonic, agreed with Wally that she needed a change, and went on his way.

Martin Christiansen asked Max about Isabelle and was informed that she had the sulks. He asked permission to see her, and he was the first visitor admitted to her room. He was shocked at the change in her. She was thin, and haggard, and old. Her eyes hurt him. She was sitting up, in a big chair, wearing a bizarre Chinese coat, all orange and black and gold. She looked any age, an exotic little creature. The hand she offered was thin as a bird's claw.

"I've been thinking that you might understand," she said to him, before he could speak.

"Thank you."

He drew a chair beside hers and waited.

"You didn't think I forgot my lines, did you?"

"It wasn't like you."

"I didn't. I was bored at rehearsals, and so I made up a wonderful Mary-part for myself, a n.o.ble character whom every one trusted."

Her eyes were upon his face, and he nodded slowly, hoping that his amus.e.m.e.nt did not leak through his expression.

"Every day, all those hours, I used to be this made-up Mary, and just toward the last I got a little wobbly as to which Mary was which," she admitted.

"Naturally."

"I knew you would see that. Well, the night of the opening I was so excited that I mixed them all up."

She said this with such tragic emphasis that he did not even want to laugh.

"How unfortunate!" he exclaimed.

"No, it wasn't unfortunate," she cried; "it was stupid, stupid, stupid!"

"Yes, it was, a trifle," he admitted.

"I thought I was going to be such a success. I just knew I could act.

Cartel said it would take me years of hard work even to begin to be an artist, and I thought I could just show him."

"I think you may be said to have shown him!" Christiansen remarked.

"Yes, I did. I showed him I was a fool. I don't wonder that he nearly killed me for it."

"No doubt it was real agony for a man as highly strung as he is. For months he had been building a fine house, and in three blows you sent it crumbling."

"Oh, don't!" groaned Isabelle.

"I didn't come to reproach you. I came to help. I want to be sure that we both understand that you have been to blame in this affair. That settled, we'll go on to the next step."

"There isn't any next step. I've disgraced us all."

"Oh, come, it isn't so bad as that. You have given a great many people a good laugh, and no doubt they are very grateful to you for it. Now, do you want to go on with the stage?--really to study the fine art of acting?"

"No! _no! NO!_"

"What are your plans?"

"I haven't any."

"You cannot spend the rest of your life in this room, my child."

"I'd like to."

"There's always something to be made of our tragedies, Isabelle. The first thing is to get yourself well again. You're all eyes. It won't do.

You must go away and get together, and when you come back we will have a talk about your work. I'm sure you have talent of some sort, if we can just direct it properly."

"I'll never believe in myself again."

He laughed and patted her hand.

"Europe is out of the question. How about Bermuda? Ever been there?"

"No"--indifferently.

"Just the place. Lots doing. Soldiers recuperating, people to watch, people to play with. Fine place for you. I'll suggest it to your parents."